Slappy the SlapHappy Prisoner
by Dautr abr du Sundavar
Summary: "He felt something draw near. A dark shadow, casting its pall over the sunny spring day..." It starts with Murtagh, and ends with a thump, a sore hand, and a soon-to-be-befuddled country. Story is better than the summary! R


**A/N: Um...hi, guys. I don't really have anything earth-shattering to share with you, so...oh, wait! I do! Well, maybe not earth-shattering...anyways...ahem. I'm a beta now! If you need one, check out my profile. I'll be happy to help if I can. Anywho, enjoy the story!**

**Disclaimer: Christopher Paolini (the owner of the Inheritance Cycle and everything the phrase implies) is a man who lives in Montana. I (the owner of...not much, really) am a girl who lives in Ohio. See any similarities? Didn't think so.

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Murtagh sat in his quarters, enjoying one of his rare days off. He was currently exercising his relative freedom by scribbling down his latest bit of emo poetry. He thought it was coming along quite nicely, considering its nature as a glimpse into his dark and rather twisted mind. He was just adding a few finishing touches when he felt _something_ draw near. A dark shadow, casting its pall over the sunny spring day. He frowned, confused. He usually only felt that way when Galbatorix was approaching, but the mad king was locked in his throne room, thrashing out the details of his most recent dastardly plot. Murtagh's frown deepened, but he shrugged it off and attributed it to stress. After all, he reasoned, he worked for a crazy man who knew his true name and frequently shoved his mind into Murtagh's; some of the insanity was bound to rub off on him...

Arneu marched down the hallway, dragging the girl behind him. She had been caught trying to sneak out of the castle, and she had been going south, toward the Varden. In the present times, anyone discovered leaving the castle without permission was to be punished; anyone heading south was to be brought before the king. Galbatorix trusted no one, put his faith in none of the citadel's inhabitants, and he made sure that any possible traitor was dealt with accordingly, so as to discourage others from following in his or her footsteps. All in all, the soldier thought sourly, a very unpleasant situation. This girl had been unusually feisty, landing a punch on Arneu's nose and probably giving him a black eye before he knocked her out. He rounded a corner, grumbling something about steak, and came face-to-cowl with a tall, cloaked figure. Acting on instinct, Arneu dropped his prisoner and scrabbled for his sword. The weapon was halfway out of its sheath when Arneu felt an invisible force prevent it from going further. He struggled against the arcane fetters, but they were unyielding. He moved his left hand toward his knife, but it was stopped as well. His eyes widened and he demanded, "Who are you?" The figure said nothing, merely raised its hood, allowing Arneu to see his captor's face. He paled and nearly collapsed. "I—I'm sorry," he sputtered out faintly. He felt his hands being released, but he merely let them fall to his sides. The person under the cloak allowed the hood to fall down again, shadowing their face once more. Arneu quickly gathered up his prisoner and stood pressed against the stone of the wall, as if hoping it would swallow him whole. The shadowed form hissed at him to take the girl to the dungeon before continuing toward the throne room. Arneu all but ran to the lowest levels of the castle, knowing, like anyone with half a mind, not to disobey an order from the hooded figure around this time of the month...

Jaren lounged against the wall outside the throne room, bored. He knew that if a sergeant came over, he was dead meat, but he didn't care, and the others on duty with him never said anything. He just wanted to take some of the weight off his aching feet. He glanced out the window at the sun; he was due to be relieved soon. He smiled faintly as he thought of the warm bath he was going to enjoy after his shift. He could kick back, relax, and not put a foot on the ground for the rest of the day if he wanted to. Of course, his replacement had to get here first, and he seemed to be taking his sweet time about it today. Jaren's smile was drowned out by a scowl as the thought occurred to him. Where was Arneu? Even if he really had found someone trying to sneak out of the castle, he should have been here long ago; the others who shared his shift had already left, leaving Jaren standing with several men he barely knew. Jaren was so wrapped up in his musings that he failed to hear the footsteps coming toward the throne room. He only noticed them when their owner appeared in front of him. He belatedly snapped to attention and growled, "What to do you want?" The cowled person spoke not a word, but raised their hood, allowing Jaren to see the very angry face beneath it. He nearly dropped his sword, and heard several of his companions' weapons clatter to the floor. The hood fell back into place, and Jaren sputtered incoherently as he moved quickly out of the way. The cloaked figure stomped the two steps to the doors, yanked them open, and stalked through, leaving Jaren and his compatriots to shove them closed. Glancing at the pale faces around him, Jaren announced, "I'm off." No one stopped him as he practically dashed to his quarters, locked the door behind him, and buried his head under his pillow, trying to escape the yelling that seemed inevitable. Maybe he would take a page out of Murtagh's book and write emo poetry...

The king of Alagaësia sat back on his throne, eyes closed, silently thanking any and every god he could think of that he was alone. Running a kingdom was draining enough, but then you added the Varden's army, Murtagh's emo-ness, Eragon and Saphira's stubbornness, and Shruiken's latest pastime – roasting anyone who came within range – to the mix, and it was positively exhausting. Galbatorix treasured moments such as this, when all was peaceful and quiet-

A cacophony of metal striking stone interrupted his musings. Scowling, he grumbled something about incompetent servants, opened his eyes, and faced the doors that were yanked open by none other than...well...he couldn't tell, actually. The bold door-yanker was wrapped in a heavy cloak, despite the warm day, and his or her mind was strongly shielded. Galbatorix's glower deepened, and as the heavy throne room doors slammed shut, the intruder tossed back their hood.

Galbatorix bit back a gasp, but he was sure that his face spoke of his shock. Standing before him was a woman, a woman he had never thought he would see again. He had sent her to the dungeon two or three weeks previously for displeasing him in some minor way. She was supposed to be rotting in a cell, never to see the light of day again. Yet there she stood, tall, proud, beautiful, and very, very angry. He got up slowly and staggered toward her. He touched her blond hair, inwardly wincing as he verified that she wasn't just a figment of his imagination.

"Anwyn?" he croaked. When her already wrathful face darkened further, he realized that he had said something very wrong.

"Don't you 'Anwyn' me, mister," she hissed. "Do you have any idea what I've gone through these last two weeks? Do you have any idea what your dungeon is _like?_" Her voice, shaking with anger, rose as she ranted. "It's _dark_, it's _dank_, the food _barely_ deserves the term, it's _wet_, the few torches ensure that it _always_ smells like burning garbage, water gets _everywhere_ when it rains, most of the prisoners are either in pain – and want everyone to know it – or _insane_, the guards have _no_ respect for _any_ moral values, and to top it off, half the time they're _drunk!_" She nearly screamed the last word. "And I know that some people actually do deserve to be down there, but to shove someone in a place like that when all they did is stroke you the wrong way, to speak metaphorically, is not just inhumane, it's _disgusting!_"

Galbatorix's mouth worked for several seconds, but nothing came out. Finally, he managed to gasp out, "Drunk?"

Anwyn's scowl became more pronounced as she replied, "Yes, _drunk_. And doing all the horrible, ill-thought-out things the word implies."

"How-how did you get out?"

A touch of embarrassment appeared fleetingly in her eyes, gone so quickly Galbatorix thought he had imagined it. "Don't ask me," she said.

"How did you get out?" He put more authority in his tone this time; the initial shock of seeing her was wearing off.

"I said-" she hauled back and slapped him hard- "_don't ask me_."

Galbatorix was frozen for an instant, flabbergasted – no one had ever dared slap him before. Reaching up to massage his jaw, which he was sure had been nearly dislocated, he turned to full-on glare at the impertinent woman before him. "You had better apologize quickly if you want to live," he said in his lowest, most threatening tone that sent grown men crying for their mommies.

Anwyn didn't even flinch. "And have you toss me in back in my ever-so-_cozy_ cell for all eternity, complete with a fresh and painful torture every day? Yeah, right."

Her reply served only to fan the flames of Galbatorix's anger. "Very well." He reached for the magic, simultaneously choosing the word that would bring her the most painful death possible. He opened his mouth to deliver the fatal incantation and-

_Smack!_

She had hit his other cheek, knocking his jaw back into place and then a little farther. When he faced her this time, she smiled innocently. "You didn't _really_ think I was just going to stand here and let you destroy me, now did you, Galby?"

At that, Galbatorix nearly fainted. No one – not even that impudent little brat Murtagh – had ever had the nerve to call him Galby, not in the last hundred years or so. Regaining control of his body, he grabbed Anwyn by the arm and dragged her to the other side of the throne room, where double doors provided access to the highest balcony in Urû'baen – perfect for throwing audacious women to their deaths.

She did not go quietly. Kicking, screaming curses, and hitting him more times than he could count, Anwyn made it clear that she did not want to go. Finally, with a red arm, sore ears, and a throat raw from swearing at her in his turn, Galbatorix thrust Anwyn toward the edge of the balcony and prepared to shove her off. Somewhere deep in his mind, he knew that he wasn't acting like himself, but he was beyond caring. This woman had pushed him well past his limit, and he wanted her dead by any means possible.

"Any last words?" he growled in her ear.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," was the calm reply.

Galbatorix was surprised enough to pull back a little, just barely making sufficient space for her to face him. "Well?" he demanded when she remained silent.

She smiled sweetly. "Do you know what time of the month it is, Galby?"

He frowned in spite of himself and racked his brain, trying to think of any reason why this part of the month should be special. "I don't..." he trailed off as it occurred to him. "Oh, no," he whispered, going white as he involuntarily loosened his grip on Anwyn's arm.

"That's right, Galby," she purred, slipping out of his nearly nonexistent grasp. "You know I get irrational around now. You should have thought of that before you banished me to the dungeon."

He faced her, standing close to the railing. "I-I..." he stammered, scrambling to give her a reason to spare him from her wrath.

"You're what? Sorry?" He nodded mutely. She clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Too late." She slapped him once more, hard. The force of the blow knocked him off-balance, and before he knew it, Galbatorix was flying without the aid of a dragon. Funny, he thought. If I'm flying, the ground shouldn't be coming toward me so fast...

Anwyn peered over the edge of the balcony, wincing at the sound of the former king's body hitting the ground. There would be a lot of work to do, she reflected. There would be messengers to send, leadership questions to answer, nobles to rein in, two dragons to deal with, and emo kid to take care of...but she didn't care at the moment.

"I want some chocolate," she said aloud, and turned toward the castle kitchens in search of the sugary goodness that would snap her out of her bad mood.

Such is the story of how Galbatorix, king of Alagaësia, black tyrant feared by all, was killed by a woman during her "time of the month."

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**A/N: Well? Whatdja think? Review pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty**** pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty**** pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty please! Let's see...what can I bribe you guys with? I dunno, but I _do_ know that I want to know what you, wonderful readers, think! Review!**


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